


Like A Snowglobe Christmas

by agoldenblackbird (mass_hipgnosis)



Series: sooner or later it comes down to fate [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Australian Jack Rollins, Civil War? Don't Know Her, F/M, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War Compliant, Post-HYDRA Reveal, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Thanos? New Phone Who Dis?, Triple Agent Rumlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28445244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mass_hipgnosis/pseuds/agoldenblackbird
Summary: You are cordially invited to combine the stress of the holidays with the anxiety of work at SHIELD's Nondenominational Winter Holiday Party.Attendance is mandatory, but there will be an open bar.
Relationships: Background Jack Rollins/OMC, Darcy Lewis/Brock Rumlow
Series: sooner or later it comes down to fate [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/573598
Comments: 25
Kudos: 191





	1. She'll Be Apples

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PumpkinDoodles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinDoodles/gifts).



> With no offense intended to actuaries or dudes named Brody, here is my (belated) Christmas present to PumpkinDoodles as thanks for getting me into this pairing. Taserbones in general and your fics in particular have been a much-needed bright spot in the steaming hot garbage hellscape of 2020, and I suck at leaving reviews so here, have a thing!

* * *

The last thing Brock wants to do is spend an evening trapped in a room with his co-workers who've had just enough liquid courage to ask really stupid questions about his burns or his time undercover as Crossbones. 

But. He's head of tactical oversight for all STRIKE teams now, in addition to running Alpha, and he doesn't want to deal with the lecture about setting a good example if he _doesn't_ go. He can put in an appearance for an hour or so, leave before anyone gets too sloshed. 

Yeah. That'll work. It'll be fine. 

* * *

It's not fine. 

He's already run into his ex Charlotte and her soulmate. What the hell kind of name is _Brody_ anyway? 

And he's an _actuary._ Brock didn't know there was a more boring job than 'accountant,' and here Brody is to prove him wrong. Joy. 

Happy fucking holidays. 

He's lurking by a support post drinking his third G&T, not sulking and _definitely_ not watching Char introduce her soulmate to everybody, when Jack ambles over. “How ya goin'?” 

“Fine.” 

“Yeah nah,” Jack counters, nudging him with one shoulder. “You need a distraction. Met Darcy yet?” 

“Your cookie dealer? No.” She always seems to stop by when Brock's in a meeting, or at the gym, or away from his desk for whatever reason. Normally it wouldn't be weird that he hadn't met somebody who worked on the lab floors, but in the six months he's been back at the Triskelion she comes by at least once a week with some kind of baked good and the excuse that baking is relaxing for her but if she ate it all she'd die of insulin shock. 

Brock suspects ulterior motives because when _doesn't_ he? Jack always insists their time undercover with HYDRA made him paranoid, and Darcy's just used to having people around to eat the end results of her stress-busting hobby, so now that she lives alone she brings stuff in to work. 

“She's over there with Commander Figjam,” Jack says, with a nod toward where Davidson from STRIKE Delta is flirting with a woman by the bar. 

_“That's_ Darcy?” Brock asks skeptically, because he's heard Jack go on about Foster's assistant, and how she's a 'bonzer sheila,' the best part of being assigned to Norway while Brock was running extralegal recovery missions. 

He was picturing someone like his Aunt Anita, who was way too nice to be married to an ass like Uncle Frank. She worked as an administrator at the middle school Brock and Fallon had gone to as kids, had a collection of novelty sweaters for every holiday, and was exactly the sort of person to bring homemade baked goods to the office. 

_This_ woman looks like a man-eater, in her curve-hugging green dress. 

“Let me introduce ya,” Jack says. 

“I'm good,” Brock replies. 

“You gotta get back out there, mate.” 

“I really don't,” he says firmly, not bothering with any explanations. _I tried, and it sucked. I hate how stupid happy Char looks with her stupid fucking actuary fiance. If it's meant to be my soulmate will find me in the gym._

Brock looks back over at the screech of “You pencil-dicked peanut-brained walking dumpster fire! How dare you!” just in time to see Foster's assistant slap Rick Davidson with a solid _crack!_ She throws her drink in his face, then knees him in the groin so hard he actually goes up on his toes with the force of it. When he crouches to put both hands down to cradle his balls with a wheeze, she plants the heel of her hand on his forehead and pushes at the same time as she pulls with a foot hooked behind his ankle and fells him like a an old-growth redwood. She's pulling her foot back to kick him in the ribs – to literally _kick him while he's down_ – when Brock reaches her and lifts her away in a fireman's carry, with one arm around her waist and his other hand on her thigh bracing her. 

Honestly he just doesn't want to deal with the paperwork of letting a civilian beat up one of his STRIKE commanders at the office party, no matter how funny or definitely-well-deserved it is. 

“Easy, murder kitten, claws in,” he says when she struggles like she's trying to launch herself off his shoulder for a second attack. 

“He said you should have died in the Uprising!” she shouts. “That if it was him, he'd rather have died than live like that! Put me _down_ so I can kick him again!” 

And Brock stops dead, because _that's his soulmark._

“Put her down, mate, let her kick 'im again,” Jack suggests, Murder Face in full force. 

“Hi, Jack,” she says. 

“'Lo, darl.” 

“Did Agent Abs just call me a murder kitten?” _Agent Abs?_

“Believe so.” 

“Huh. Sounded less patronizing than I always thought it would,” she says, and then a hand pats his ass. “Ooh, the booty's nice too, Merry Christmas to _me._ Whoever's in charge of soulmate assignments does excellent work.” 

At that, Brock carefully puts her down. She looks him in the face like it's just a face, not a hint of wince or flinch. “Agent Abs?” he asks. 

She grins at him and says, “There's a listserv for a supercut of security feeds from the STRIKE gym. It goes out once a week, mostly to support staff and archivists. Man Candy Monday. You don't go shirtless in the gym anymore and it makes us sad, but we can still see your abs through your shirt, so. Agent Abs.” 

“Seriously? I look like a half-melted candle,” he says incredulously. Because he'd come to terms a long time ago with the idea that something awful was going to happen to him, a permanent injury bad enough that someone 'would rather have died than live like that,' although not so bad, apparently, that he couldn't still pick up a full-grown woman. He'd _thought_ he'd made his peace with it, was ready, even, for it to happen because he couldn't meet his soulmate until it did. 

He was wrong. He wasn't ready. 

“Rude!” his soulmate complains. “Don't talk about yourself like that.” 

“You gonna kick my ass like Davidson?” 

She frowns and leans around him to glare in Davidson's direction, then shouts, “Yeah, you _better_ run, jackass!” Brock turns to look too, sees the idiot scrambling out of the room like his ass is on fire. 

He still has both hands on her waist, and he tightens his grip a little and asks, “Is it safe to let you go or are you going to maim somebody with a cocktail fork?” 

She tips her head to the side a bit and purses her mouth like she's thinking, then says, “Nah, the moment's passed. But my cyber-vengeance shall be swift and terrible. Tony will help me, he hates SHIELD and loves a good ruining.” 

“Tony _Stark?”_ His soulmate is friends with Iron Man? 

“Uh-huh. Do you think adding him to the TSA terrorist watchlist is too far?” 

“Yes.” 

“Dammit,” she sighs. “I really want airport security to put him in one of their sad little detainment rooms and forget him for a few hours.” Then she perks up and says, “Wanna buy me a new drink? I threw mine.” 

Jack whoops with laughter. 

“It's an open bar.” 

“I _know_ that, I'm trying to be subtle about getting you under the mistletoe,” she says with a pointed tilt of her head. Sure enough, there's mistletoe hung up with red and white ribbon in the middle of the archway that leads to the alcove where the bar's been set up. 

“Go easy on him, love,” Jack says. “He got conked on the head on the last mission.” 

“Don't help,” Brock complains. “I didn't get hit _that_ hard, the serum took care of it already.” 

“Well if it's _not_ a concussion, what's your excuse, then?” she teases him. 

“You're just so gorgeous you got me all turned around.” It sounds like a line, but it isn't; he's pretty sure he left half his brain on the floor the minute she said his Words. 

“Awww, you are so full of it,” she coos, but she also goes up on her tiptoes and presses a smacking kiss to his cheek, so he's gonna call it a win. “It's a good thing I like that.” 

“Really?” 

“Oh yeah, hit me with your best cheesy pickup lines. I'll start. Are you a library book, because I can't stop checking you out.” 

“I like your dress. Is it made of...soulmate material?” 

She groans, but she's grinning too. “I lost my phone number, can I have yours?” 

“My teammates bet me I couldn't start a conversation with the most beautiful woman in the room. What should we buy with their money?” he asks as they reach the bar. The bartender's jaw drops when Darcy laughs and tucks herself under his arm, like he can't believe a line that cheesy actually worked. 

“Gin and Tonic and a...?” Brock trails off, glancing questioningly at Darcy. 

“Whiskey sour.” 

“Sure thing,” the bartender says with a nod. 

“Are you my student loans? Because you've definitely got my interest.” Darcy adds an over-the-top waggle of the eyebrows to her innuendo-laden tone. 

“Can you believe these two? It's a good thing they're soulmates, saves the rest of us from their terrible jokes,” Jack says to the bartender, who fumbles the highball glass and drops it with a smash. 

“Fuck! Oh, shit, sorry, I, um, hi,” the bartender stutters, and Brock whips around to stare, because years of close quarters and locker rooms means he knows those Words on Jack's left shoulder nearly as well as the ones on his own ribs along his side, now blurred and unreadable with scar tissue. Sure enough, the bartender finishes that off with, “I'm Michael. It's really great to finally meet you.” 

_Who's concussed now?_ Brock wants to rib Jack, who really does look like somebody clubbed him over the head, but he glances down at Darcy and thinks about how he almost didn't come to the party, and if he hadn't, apparently Jack wouldn't have met his soulmate either. 

Fate is weird, but also pretty great. He just claps his best friend on the back and mutters a congratulations, gets a dazed nod back, and lets his soulmate lead him over to the mistletoe. 

They're interrupted by a tiny brunette in flannel and jeans who tells Darcy, “Okay, I stayed for an hour, now give me the lock code for the lab.” 

“Did you talk to people, Janey?” Darcy asks her. 

She turns to look at Brock and says, “Hi. Happy Holidays.” Then turns back to Darcy and says, “There, I talked to people.” 

“Close enough,” Darcy says with a laugh. “But you will be meeting my soulmate properly, later. The lock code is the day of your dissertation defence, day-month-year, then star, 000, star.” 

“Got it,” the astrophysicist says with a nod, then strides for the door without acknowledging the soulmate thing at all. 

“Wait for it...” Darcy murmurs before he can ask. “She's gonna process that in three, two.....one.” 

“Your soulmate is a JACKBOOTED THUG?” Foster yells as she comes marching back over. _“You're_ Mr. Murder Kitten?” she demands very suspiciously of Brock. 

“He said that because I kneed Rick Davidson in the 'nads.” 

“Oh,” Foster says, the explanation knocking her aggressive hostility down by about half. 

“I was never violent or confrontational as a kid, so I always thought my soulmate would be making fun of me,” Darcy explains. “Then I met Jane. She's very slap-happy. I guess it kinda rubs off?” 

“You can't go around slapping people for being assholes about my scars.” 

“I reject your premise on the basis of it contradicting observed reality,” Darcy replies, and Foster snorts. 

“Huh?” 

“Fancy science smack talk that means clearly I _can_ because I already _did.”_

“I'm going to save most of the shovel talk for Tony's holiday party because the team will want to help,” Foster says, then pokes Brock in the sternum with one finger. Her nails are _sharp._ “But if you hurt my Darcy I will open a portal to Svartalfheim and push you in, got it?” 

“Got it,” Brock agrees, even though he has no idea where Svartalfheim is. “Wait, the Avengers holiday party?” 

“Uh-huh!” from Darcy. 

“I can't go.” 

“Why not?” from Foster. 

“Because STRIKE Alpha's on call over the holidays, but if I'm in New York and don't go see my Ma, she won't leave enough of me for you to portal anywhere.” 

“I'll handle it,” Darcy says, then reaches down the low neck of her dress and pulls out a StarkPhone. 

“Who are you texting?” 

“Tony. He'll request Alpha as security for his holiday party _and_ his New Year's Eve party, invite your mom to both, Jack can bring Michael, and Davidson's team can be on call for the holidays. Is he Delta or Charlie?” 

“Delta. You can do that?” 

“The first part? Yes, absolutely. The second part? No, but Davidson's gonna think I did and the rest of his team will be in on it with me after I bribe them with peanut butter brownies and a pot of my secret good coffee. You can be on call from New York, the Tower has a Quinjet bay.” 

It's been ten minutes and they haven't even kissed but she's already the boss of him, and he doesn't even mind it. “You're gonna be a handful, aren't ya?” 

She looks down at her cleavage, which is practically weaponized by the dress, and then says, voice dripping with innuendo, “I'm _definitely_ more than a handful.” 

Oh yeah. He's gonna be wrapped around her little finger. He can't wait. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figjam: Aussie slang for someone who thinks they're hot shit. Acronym for 'Fuck I'm Good; Just Ask Me.'
> 
> Darcy's Outfit: 


	2. Obligatory Marvel Post-Credits Scene

* * *

“We need to have a word about your soulmate,” Fury says when he comes into Brock's office a week after the spectacular train wreck that was Stark's New Year's Eve party. Jack's on the sofa with a StarkPad doing paperwork, his fractured ankle elevated. 

“Is this a security clearance thing?” Brock asks warily, because he hasn't told her a damn thing he wasn't supposed to, but she has an impressive network of informants in an elaborate cookie-and-coffee-based black market barter economy. He doesn't know what she puts in her coffee to make it so good, either, and none of the scientists will test it for him and risk losing access to their source. 

It's a little bit frightening; if HYDRA had recruited her they'd be ruling the world by now. 

“No.” 

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing and says, “Who'd she slap now?” Jack doesn't bother to muffle his own snickers. 

“She didn't slap anybody, she deleted Davidson's requal scores. _All_ of them, for the entire time he's worked here. We can't find them. Even the scanned paper copies are blank, and the original copies are missing.” 

“I guess he'll have to retake them, then,” Brock says mildly. “He's always bragging about how easy they are, I don't see the issue.” 

“She changed his birthplace to Hell Gate, Montana, his DOB to December 18 1878-” 

“Stalin's birthday, that's a good one.” 

“-his job title to Pornography Historian and his next of kin to Colonel Sanders.” 

“Where's the lie?” he asks. Jack has put down his StarkPad to hold his stomach while he laughs. 

“All his ID photos were replaced with pictures of Nicholas Cage.” 

Brock snorts. 

“On his actual, physical ID!” 

“She's very resourceful,” he says dryly, wondering if that was the result of Loki's magic or Romanoff's pick-pocketing skills. 

“His credit score is now -459! They don't even _go_ to negative numbers!” 

“It's absolute zero. It's a science pun.” That one was probably masterminded by Jane; a pain in the ass, sure, but so obviously a glitch that a few hours on hold with Transunion to speak to an actual person would be all it took to fix it. 

“She had his car impounded by the city of Chicago.” 

“I've heard they're the worst for that.” 

“He'll have to go there to get it back in person, and he can't _do that_ without photo ID that matches the car's registration!” 

“Which he currently doesn't have. Maybe Nic Cage will do him a solid, he's supposedly a real nice guy.” 

“In the meantime, the charges are two hundred dollars a day! Plus a $980 towing fee, a $650 'stair navigation' fee, a $200 winch fee, and a $20 per mile 'tow truck rental!'” 

“Hm, that is a very expensive mistake. He shouldn't have left his car in Chicago, then.” 

“He didn't! It was in our secure parking garage! With video surveillance! It just vanished from one second to the next! And _appeared_ under the Chicago Bean! He got a $200 parking ticket!” 

“That's impressive. I'm impressed.” And he is, both the actual prank and getting Fury to lose his cool to the point that he's essentially speaking in all caps. “I wonder if she'd tell me how they managed that, or if it's like, ya know, a magician not revealing their secrets,” Brock muses. Probably portals were involved somehow, and even odds if it was Loki, Jane or Wong. It's equal parts impressive and terrifying that his soulmate has managed to gather so many people around her who consider coordinated group vengeance a fun hobby. 

“I really don't give a shit, Rumlow! Rollins, get a hold of yourself, you sound like a drunk hyena!” 

Brock smirks at his boss. “Still not sure what you want me to do about it, Fury.” 

“Tell her to stop!” 

“I think you're confusing 'soulmate' and 'owner.' I mean, I suppose I can _ask_ her to call off the dogs, but he's gonna have to eat the ticket and the impound fees.” With his hazard pay, he can afford it. 

“Fine.” 

“And again, I don't own her; so if she takes exception to someone else talking shit about my scars, that's on them for running their mouth when they knew the consequences.” 

“If you expect me to look the other way in the future, I'll need to get something in return.” 

“What's that?” he asks, wary. Because the _last_ time Fury asked him for a favour, he ended up undercover with squid-Nazis for four years. 

“I want the good coffee.” 

“She won't let you have any?” Brock asks, surprised. Because Darcy won't give out her recipe, but people are welcome to drop by her office in the vestibule leading to Foster's lab to say hi and help themselves to a cup. It's the cornerstone of her informant network; not only does she hear _everything,_ but once she's lured someone into her web with friendly baked goods, they come to her on the daily, give her information in the guise of gossip and chitchat and vague complaints about meetings, and think _she's_ doing _them_ a favour. 

But she puts all those little tidbits together until she knows more about SHIELD's day-to-day operations than anyone but Fury. He'd asked her what she wanted all that information for, and she said it was the same reason she switched majors six times. She just wanted to _know._

“Not until she gets her damn iPod back.” 

“So give her her damn iPod! Why do you even have it?” 

Fury rubs his forehead and sighs like Brock is treading on his last nerve, then explains, “It was confiscated along with the rest of her and Foster's electronics during the 084 in Puente Antiguo, and mislabelled or misfiled in the evidence locker so that it wasn't returned with the rest of the confiscated material. I can't _get_ the damn iPod back, it was destroyed along with the rest of the New Mexico facility in 2012! And I'm sick of Romanoff and Hill rubbing their coffee access in my face.” 

“I'm not going behind my soulmate's back for you, sir. But I'll see if I can get her to relax her coffee embargo on the basis that her iPod's destruction is technically Loki's fault.” 

“...is that wise?” 

“It'll be fine.” He's still adjusting to the fact that Darcy treats the guy who tried to take over Earth like an annoying little brother who's secretly her favourite sibling. She'd hold her grudge against Fury until the heat death of the universe, but against her 'mischief bro?' It wouldn't last a week. 

“Well all right then,” he concedes, still seeming nonplussed, and turns to leave. 

So Brock decides to push his luck a little. “And hey, tell Davidson to cheer up. If he can't be a good example, at least he's a very effective cautionary tale.” 

Fury scoffs and turns in the doorway to call over his shoulder, “I'm not your secretary, tell him yourself!” 

Oh well, it was worth a shot. 

Wait, did he just facilitate Darcy adding the Director to her informant network? Crap. “Future generations will look back on this moment as the tipping point for our benevolent overlord Empress Darcy's eventual coup, and curse my name.” 

“Too right, mate,” Jack agrees easily. “But the cookies are worth it.” 

“I don't eat cookies.” 

“But the nookie's worth it?” 

Well, he walked right into that one. “Shut up. How long you planning on milking this ankle thing?” Because Jack had the knock-off HYDRA serum too; Barton falling on him didn't hurt him _that_ bad. 

“Depends on how the chocolate pavlova turns out.” 

“Why is my soulmate giving you fancy desserts?” 

“Would you rather she was giving me-” 

_“Don't.”_

Jack grins and mimes zipping his lip. 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Darcy's Secret Coffee Recipe: A teaspoon of fine-ground roasted cacao nibs, a quarter teaspoon of pumpkin pie spice, and an eighth of a teaspoon of regular table salt, mixed into the grounds for a standard 12 cup carafe.
> 
> I'm marking this as finished, but I may do a flashback chapter of How Jack Broke His Ankle, AKA Tony Should Really Stop Throwing Parties, They Never End Well.


End file.
